The seawater in her hair
by MockingJayFlyingFree
Summary: "And just like that, with one sentence, his world shatters. His body is temporarily unable to draw breath, as he realizes what this means, and he thinks, "I'm going to lose her". He doesn't even know which "her" it's going to be, he just knows that whoever it is, it's going to destroy him." The story of Finnick and the other victors of District Four in the month before the Quell.


**The seawater in her hair**

* * *

_**This story seemed to write itself. And don't worry, I haven't abandoned The Other Mockingjay, which will be updated soon, I just had to write this one first. It's just a one-shot. There are a few quotes from Catching Fire, they are written in italics.**_

_**The idea originally came from a picture of Mags on Tumblr. I don't remember exactly what the text said, but it was something about her relationship with Finnick, and how important she was to him. And then I started thinking about the reaping in District Four. Finnick's relationship with Annie. Mags and Finnick's involvement with the rebellion. And the courage it takes to volunteer for the Quarter Quell – to be willing to sacrifice your life for someone you don't even really know. For an idea. For the hope of a better future.**_

_**All of a sudden, this story wouldn't leave me alone. It's just a one-shot. This is the story we never got to hear – it's about the victors of District Four in the weeks before the Quarter Quell.**_

* * *

«_On the seventy-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest among them cannot overcome the power of the Capitol, the male and female tributes will be reaped from their existing pool of victors_.»

And just like that, with one sentence, his world shatters.

His body is temporarily unable to draw breath, as he realizes what this **means**, and he thinks, "I'm going to lose her". He doesn't even know which "her" it's going to be, he just knows that whoever it is, it's going to destroy him. Whether it's the woman he loves or the woman who saved his life, it doesn't matter. Whoever has to go into that area - again - he will lose someone he desperately needs to stay sane.

Only after two shots of tequila does he realize that he could be reaped, too. He does the math in his head. Four living male tributes from Four. Himself, Hook, Hannock, Trom.

25% percent chance to die. 100% chance to get his heart broken.

Those are shitty odds.

But of course, the odds have never been in his favor.

He can see his client walk towards him in a dress that shows far too much skin – it's one of his regulars. She's ridiculously loud in bed, and she's into some stuff that even he thinks is kinky. But he knows exactly how to get her off, it doesn't even take very long usually, and for that he's grateful. He could fuck this one in his sleep and still get her off, and tonight, he's happy that it's her, because his mind is elsewhere.

"It's all so exciting, isn't it, Finnick?" she coos as she slips one arm around his waist. "This will be the most amazing Games ever!"

He just looks at her, his jaw open, momentarily speechless. It doesn't even seem like she has realized that he could end up in the Games, too. That he has a one in four chance of being dead in a month. But then he sees her smile, and he realizes that of course she knows.

And it turns her on.

Fucking pervert.

As they leave the bar, hand in hand, he knows this cruel twist of the Hunger Games wasn't done because of him. It's clear as day: Snow wants to get rid of the Mockingjay.

That Annie or Mags will have to die as well, well, that's just an unfortunate side effect.

* * *

After, mission accomplished, he goes back to the bar. He knows he should just go back to his room, but he can't bring himself to, and he hates himself for it. He knows that when he does, he'll call Annie. And he doesn't know if he can handle it, not now.

He's not worthy of her.

How he wishes she were here.

And how glad he is that she isn't, that she's safe back in Four.

For now, anyway.

He's surprised to see Cashmere in the bar. She's clearly been hitting the bottle, which she usually doesn't do. She's almost impossibly beautiful still, in a silvery dress that hugs every perfect curve of her body. He knows those curves well, of course. They've been paired on a few occasions. Some clients like that. Quite a few do, actually, although few of them are rich enough to afford the two most beautiful prostitutes in Panem at the same time. Because you don't get a volume discount, not with victors – quite the opposite.

They've been together a few times without any money being involved as well, years ago, but it didn't take them long to figure out they were better off as friends. Of sorts.

He goes to the bar, and charms the bartender into giving him a bottle of champagne for free. Then he sits down next to her. She's staring at something invisible in the distance. Her blonde hair is slightly disheveled, and she smells like sex. Her wrists are faintly bruised.

"Rough night?" He asks her.

She looks at him, startled at first, and then she smiles a drunken smile. "Oh, you know, the usual. You?"

"Loud. Kinky. You know."

Yes, she does.

"I didn't bring any champagne flutes," he says apologetically, and she shrugs. "I can get some." He starts to get up to go back to the bar, but she stops him.

"Doesn't matter. Since when do we need flutes to drink, anyway? We're not that classy, we can drink champagne straight from the bottle. We're hookers, after all." She takes the bottle from him, throws her head back, and drinks. He watches her throat move as she swallows, and she just keeps swallowing, she doesn't put the bottle down. She's going to be sick tomorrow, he thinks, and then she says: "I'm going to be sick tomorrow." He knows that drinking champagne after liquor is a bad idea, and he momentarily feels terrible for getting her champagne, of all things. But then he thinks, she's old enough to take care of herself. She knows what she's doing. She just doesn't care. "Are we celebrating our certain deaths or what?"

"Yeah, I guess." He pauses. "We don't **have** to get reaped, you know. And I'd thought you'd like another shot at it, perhaps?" She volunteered last time, after all.

But then again, this time she knows better. He knows she does. She knows what she'd be getting herself into. Of course she wouldn't be stupid enough to volunteer twice. "What if I'll have to compete with Gloss?" She whispers.

He hadn't thought about that. "That would be so fucked up," he finally answers. "If they set you up to kill each other." Brother and sister, fighting to the death in the arena. That would be a first. Which is, of course, the reason why it will probably happen. Damn gamemakers and their rigged reapings. He takes the bottle from her and drinks, feeling his own stomach revolt already.

"Give me back the bottle," she growls. She throws her head back again, and when she puts the bottle down on the table, she's already had half of it. He sees the looks they are getting. He knows why – seeing them together seems to be almost unsettling to most people. They are both too beautiful separately. Together, they are somehow too much for this earth.

Well, perhaps they'll both be gone from this earth in a few weeks, anyway.

"You could win, you know", he says. "You've done it before."

"So could you."

Blue eyes meet sea green ones over the bottle. Fear and despair meeting fear and despair.

She looks down at her hands. Her nails have been bit down. She never does that. "Stay with me tonight?" She whispers.

He hesitates. "You know I won't."

She looks up at him, and her eyes are filled with tears now. "I'm sure Mags will volunteer for her," she whispers.

"I could never ask her to," he whispers back, he can barely get the words out.

* * *

He's not in bed until dawn. He needs a stop in front of the toilet first, his stomach contents making a reappearance. The champagne was definitely a bad idea. His world is spinning as his head hits the pillow, and he hesitantly reaches out his hand to get his phone before he passes out. He knows her number by heart, of course.

He knows it's five in the morning. He doesn't know if she's at home or if she's perhaps been hospitalized. He hopes her family got to her in time, to keep her safe.

He desperately hopes she hasn't done anything stupid. Hurt herself. Or worse.

His hand is shaking as he holds the phone to his ear, hearing the rings on the other end. One. Two. Three. Four.

Then, just before the fifth, she answers. "Finnick?" He can barely hear her voice. She's been crying. It's only a whisper.

"Annie." And then he starts crying, too. Heavy, desperate sobs. They don't say anything else, neither of them can, they just cry together on the phone.

Finally, she says: "I can't do it, Finnick. I **can't**."

And he knows that she can't.

He's barely able to get the words out: "I'm going home in two days. Please don't do anything… Please wait for me?"

There's silence on her end. "Annie?" He remembers all too well the three times that she didn't.

The pumping.

The waiting.

The hospital bed.

The anguish.

"Sorry," she answers finally, after a long pause. "I nodded. On the phone. I didn't think."

He'd laugh if it wasn't five in the morning and if the whole situation hadn't been so fucked up. "Promise, Annie?"

"I promise."

"Is your mother there?"

"Yes."

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. "Can I talk to her?" He knows it's very early, but this is too important.

"Sure. Just hold on."

He hears how she puts the phone down, and then sounds in the background – the door, muffled sounds of voices.

"Finnick?" It's her mother.

"Hi, Mary." He knows her well now. It wasn't always easy between them – she didn't approve of her broken, frail daughter being together with a Capitol playboy at first. He also suspected that she resented him simply because he'd had anything to do with the Hunger Games. But he managed to make her see, in the end, that he loved her daughter. That he would never hurt her. "I'm glad you're there." The rest of the sentence is unsaid: "I'm glad you're there when I can't be." But they both know.

"Are you coming home soon?"

"Yes." He was going home for the reaping anyway.

The reaping.

He feels sick again. "Look after her for me until then, okay?" There are more unsaid words as well: Don't leave her alone. Not for one minute.

She knows. "I will, Finnick."

* * *

His train arrives late in the afternoon, and he's grateful that most people are at home, having dinner. Being in the Capitol is torture, but being at home isn't easy, either. People think he's the person they see on TV, the one they read about in their stupid gossip magazines. He looks at his reflection in the glass, sees the bronze complexion, the styled hair, the too white teeth and the blemish-free, perfect skin – and sighs.

If they only knew.

No one waits for him at the train station. Not that he expected anyone to. He doesn't have much luggage, just a small bag. He spends so much time in the Capitol that he has separate wardrobes and his own, permanent suite at the fanciest hotel in the Capitol. Not that he could've used the same set of clothes without looking like a fool in one of the places, anyway. He feels very out of place in his golden silk suit. He fetches his bag, containing only toiletries, a change of clothes and a book, and walks home.

It's not a long walk, just ten minutes or so. The ten houses in the Victor Village are identical and picture perfect. When he's nearly there, he meets Trom, who's walking his dog. "Hey."

"How's life in the Capitol?" Trom asks.

Trom is married, he has four children aged two to eight. Finnick swallows hard. He's not the only one whose life hangs in the balance. "Oh, you know. Same same."

Trom lifts an eyebrow. He knows the deal, of course. He got off relatively easy himself, he was only sold for a few seasons before Finnick came along. Then the Capitol lost interest in Trom, and he was able to marry the woman he loved and only go to the Capitol once a year for the Hunger Games. Trom lives a nearly normal life. He's one of the few victors who does.

"This is so fucked." There is rage in Trom's eyes.

And the only thing he can say is: "Yeah."

"Salina is pregnant."

"Fuck, man, I'm sorry." Normally, he'd congratulate him, of course. But now, thinking about a baby who will possibly never get to see his or her father…

"I know."

* * *

He goes directly to her house. Going to his own is not an option, he hasn't been there in months, except when he has to go get more clothes from his closet.

It took them years to get together. She was so broken. He felt so dirty. He was afraid that his presence in her life would give Snow an excuse to hurt her - again. But then he realized that the president already knew, anyway, and that she was already a target.

He doesn't knock on the door, because in a way, it's his house, too. She's sitting by the kitchen table together with her mother. Suddenly, she's in his arms, holding him so tightly he can barely breathe. She smells of flowers and tears and faintly of seaweed. He buries his nose in her unruly brown hair, and allows himself to lose himself in this, in the feeling of being close to her.

He's missed her so much.

Then he looks up at her mother over her shoulder, at her red-rimmed eyes. And he remembers that this homecoming isn't like all the others. He mouths "thank you" to her over Annie's shoulder, and she nods silently. Mary gets up, ready to go home. Her watch has ended, now Finnick is home to resume the responsibility. She pats his shoulder as she leaves, and he's grateful for her support.

"Come," Annie whispers after her mother has left, and she leads him outside. They go down to the beach. They always do when he returns from the Capitol, this is their own little tradition. The water is still cold, it's only June, but they do this if he returns home in January, too. They've grown up in District Four, after all, cold water doesn't scare them.

This is how he washes the Capitol away from his body, from every pore. The dirt - imaginary and real - the make-up, the powder, the perfume. The seawater takes it all away, until all he is is just Finnick, the boy from District Four, who smells of salt water and seaweed.

She tears off her clothes, and he does the same, and jumps in after her. They are both able swimmers, of course. Like seals they swim, more underwater than above the surface, until he's so cold he can barely feel his fingers anymore. Only then do they get out of the water, covering their shivering bodies with the two towels they brought with them. The sun is setting. They run back to the house, in just shoes and towels, carrying their clothes in one hand. Once inside, they go straight to bed, leaving the towels on the floor. Her hair is wet, drenching the pillow. She doesn't care. She buries her face against his chest, which feels so naked now that his prep team has waxed it. She always says she likes his chest hair, that she loves when it grows back, but she doesn't now. She knows it won't have time to grow back before the reaping, before the Hunger Games. Even if he isn't reaped, he'll still have to go. He mentors, every year. His body is sold, every year.

It took them years to get to this point. Even after they had finally acknowledged that it was **them**, forever, he was afraid to touch her, aside from kisses and him shyly touching her curves through her clothes sometimes. He knew what she had been through – that she, too, had been sold. He also knew that it didn't last long. Her mental health was already severely compromised after her experience in the Hunger Games, and being raped repeatedly didn't exactly make things better. Snow didn't kill her family for her complete and utter failure as a whore. It was almost unbelievable, but probably proof of just how broken she was. Even Snow saw it.

To anyone who'd seen him in the Capitol, his insecurity with Annie when this last barrier between them was broken must have seemed ridiculous. He was **Finnick Odair**. Orgasm guaranteed. He knew everything there was to know about the human body, be it male or female.

He did not, however, know how to deal with actual human emotion. Of love. Of loving someone so much he'd rather never touch her than risk hurting her. In a way, he was as much a victim and as inexperienced as she was. He'd had more women (and men) than he cared to count – most of them clients, but some he had chosen himself, like Cashmere. But it had always been about his body, not his heart.

In the end it had been Annie – broken, raped, mad (or so they said) Annie – who had initiated their first time. Her shy hands and the way she shifted her hips – inexperienced yet determined – against his could not be misunderstood. Yet he asked her, in the darkness. Did she really mean it? Did she really want **him**?

Her voice was warm and soft as velvet when she assured him that she did. That she always had. His tears were salt, salter than the sea.

Their first time together wasn't amazing or earth-shattering or perfect. It was clumsy and awkward and difficult. He was scared. She was scared. They tried in the darkness first, but it turned out that she needed to see his face, she needed to see that it was him. Not one of **them**, the ones from the Capitol. When he realized, that she couldn't really keep them out of her head in the darkness, he lit candles, all over the room. The soft light made her skin glow, and she smiled gratefully at him, thanking him silently for understanding and never judging. He silently thanked her for the same thing. When at last he entered her, she whimpered, so low he could barely hear it, and her body tensed, and he was afraid that she was back in the Capitol again. Her fingernails were like claws against the skin of his back. "Look at me, Annie," he whispered in her ear. "Look at me." And she did, and he never allowed her eyes to waver from his sea green ones. He held her and loved her and throughout it all she always, always looked at him.

He remembers that night now. He holds her tighter, her hair full of salt as it is drying, their bodies heating up the bed. The window is open, they can hear the wind and the waves crashing against the beach.

He is home.

He falls asleep.

* * *

Two days later, he's somehow not surprised to find Mags in their kitchen in the morning. It smells of freshly baked scones and coffee. There is real butter on the table, yellow like the sun. She has plucked flowers, they are in a vase beside the butter.

"I thought we could go fishing today, Finnick," Mags says. She's hard to understand for someone who has never met her before, she mumbles and her words are unclear, but he's used to it. Their fishing together is a common occurrence. They don't **have** to fish, not anymore. They have all the money and food they could ever need. But still, they were both raised on boats, like almost everyone in Four. It's in their blood – the salt, the fish, the waves, walking on deck, feeling the wind against their faces.

"Sure," he answers. And he knows that she needs to talk to him. Alone. Without Annie.

Without bugs.

They don't talk about the Quarter Quell at all over breakfast. Annie is tense and nervous, she can't quite hide the way her hands shake. The last two days, it's taken all his strength and tremendous effort to keep her on her feet. To make her think about something else than the Games. Despite the flushed cheeks from their very recent lovemaking – he wonders if Mags heard them while she was down in the kitchen, and realizes that she probably did, not that she brings it up – she is still very pale. "Salina wondered if you could help her out with the kids this morning," Mags says to Annie. Finnick knows she's making sure that someone looks after Annie while the two of them are out fishing, and he's grateful.

They have fancy, shiny Capitol boats, of course. With large engines and plenty of high-tech fishing equipment. Sun decks, even toilets and a fresh-water shower. But the boat Mags chooses, is an old wooden boat, one Finnick inherited from his grandfather. Mags hands him the oars without saying anything, and he feels an unexpected thrill as he sits down and start rowing. He hasn't done this in years, but his body remembers. Strong, long strokes with the oars propel the boat through the water, and without thinking about their destination at all, he finds that he's taking them to his favorite fishing spot. It's relaxing, this steady rhythm. Like a heartbeat.

It's cloudy, but still quite warm, and there is only a light breeze. It's a perfect day. As he stops rowing and pulls in the oars, they both throw out the fishing lines, the hooks angled with the shells Mags picked up at the shore before they left. She's been angling the hooks as he rowed. They haven't talked, not one single word.

It's Mags who finally breaks the silence.

"Katniss Everdeen."

Her voice is crystal clear now, the way it always is when it's just the two of them together, without the bugs. He thinks he's the only one who knows that her "stroke" was just an act.

Mags is clever. She didn't win the Hunger Games by chance.

Still, of all the things he'd expected her to say, "Katniss Everdeen" certainly wasn't it. "Huh?"

"She's the reason we're going to back in the arena."

His shoulders slump. "I know." Then he realizes what she just said. "What did you say?"

Mags doesn't answer at first, busy taking in the first fish. It bit on the way down. There is a reason why this is Finnick's favorite fishing spot. The fish is quite small, but still she smiles triumphantly as she gives it a knock over the head, bleeds it and throws it into the bucket. "I have some good news and some bad news. What do you want to hear first?"

"The good."

"The good news is that I'm going to volunteer for Annie."

And again, the world stops. Everything that exists in it is this old woman, his savior, his constant, the one he loves more than almost anything. Tears spring to his eyes. He doesn't know if it's sorrow or desperation or relief.

"The bad news is that the reaping is rigged," she continues. "We already know who's going to be reaped. From District Four, it's going to be Annie… And you." He can't breathe. He can't breathe. Not the arena. Not again. She touches his arm. "I'm sorry, Finnick."

"Why?" He manages to say.

"Katniss Everdeen is the primary target… It's not that hard to figure out, really. She's the only living female victor from District 12, and Snow needs her gone. Snow is a lot of things, but no one can accuse him of being subtle." She actually chuckles. "But you… You know too much, you know too many secrets. It's safer for the Capitol if you were to die in the Hunger Games. Plus you're dashingly handsome and popular, and you're great for ratings. Those things count too, of course." She pauses slightly. "And they know that you love Annie, and they think it would be great TV to watch the two of you die together. The star-crossed lovers of District Four, so to speak." He feels sick. He should have stayed away from Annie. He really should have. How could he bring this on her? "Don't worry, Finnick. Even if there had been no Katniss Everdeen, I still would've volunteered to keep Annie out of the Games. I'm old, I'll die soon anyway. Annie… She has her entire life ahead of her."

Yes, he thinks. She does. But her life will be without **me**. Will she survive life without me? Will she find the strength to keep living? Will Mags sacrifice her life for Annie, only for her to end up at the bottom of the sea? Or with her stomach full of pills, dying in a hospital bed?

But then he registers what she just said. Even if there had been no Katniss Everdeen… He looks up at her, and her blue eyes, so intense, meet his.

This isn't about Annie, not really.

And then she tells him about the rebellion. He knew parts of it already – he's paid in secrets, after all. But he's heard nothing about the plan that she tells him of.

They'll try to get them all out. They'll take them to District Thirteen – he'd been almost sure that it still existed, but he hadn't **known**, not really. But it does exist. "But you need to understand, Finnick, that we need to save Katniss at all costs - even if that means dying ourselves. Everyone who's in this, everyone who is on our side, needs to fully realize that. That her life is more important than ours, that there must be no hesitation. We have one goal, and one goal only, and that's to get Katniss Everdeen out of that arena alive." And unsaid, it's there: Her life is even more important than Annie's.

"This is bigger than us," he says, his voice not quite clear.

"Yes. But saving Katniss Everdeen also involves saving Peeta Mellark. It's the only way we can keep her on our side. Haymitch will manipulate her to get her into an alliance with us, so that we can protect them both while we wait for the right time for our escape from the arena."

"Why? She doesn't love him. Why would he matter so much to her?"

"**He** loves her. And no one knows what she really feels for him, she probably doesn't even know it herself, but we need to keep him safe. Haymitch thinks she'll sacrifice herself to get Peeta out of the arena alive, that she will feel like she owes him a debt. And he knows her pretty well. Probably even better than Peeta does."

"Sounds like love to me."

Mags shrugs. "If it's guilt or love, it doesn't really matter. It is what it is."

"What if Haymitch is reaped?"

"We don't know who they intend the male tribute from District 12 to be, but it doesn't matter who it is – Peeta will volunteer, anyway. He's very predictable when it comes to his intent to save Katniss."

And he thinks, there is a chance I can get out of this alive. They'll try to get everyone who's still alive out when they rescue Katniss. And at the same time, another thought: I'll have to be ready to sacrifice my life for a person I don't even know.

How does he feel about that?

How does he feel about the Capitol? He was reaped when he was only 14. Forced to kill children in the arena with a fucking trident. Prostituted only days later. Since then, he has dealt with sex and secrets. He knows much of what goes on in the Capitol, but he didn't know the extent of the rebellion, the lengths they'll go to. The power they have.

The power to save their Mockingjay, the symbol they so desperately need.

He saw her in the arena last year, too, when he was mentoring. Her stunt with the berries… it was quite impressive. He secretly admired Haymitch for managing to get two tributes out of the arena alive, but he never told him. It was a very clever trick, playing up the star-crossed lovers.

He's seen a quiet strength and defiance in her. He doesn't even know if she sees it herself, she's always seemed more intent on surviving than anything else. Their very brief introduction in the Capitol last year, after the Hunger Games, didn't really make a lasting impression on him.

So he is to sacrifice his life for Katniss Everdeen?

And he looks at Mags. He sees the way she's studying his face, and he knows she can read him, she always could. Better than anyone - better, even, than Annie.

"Someone has to look after Annie," he says. "If I can't." If I die.

She nods. "We'll arrange that."

If this plan works… If they manage to overthrow the Capitol. If he's still alive to see it… Perhaps they can be together. Perhaps the prostitution and the game of secrets can end.

He nods.

"I'm in."

She lifts an eyebrow. "You realize you didn't really have a choice, did you?"

He laughs. "What would you have done if I'd said no?"

She doesn't laugh. "I would've killed you."

His laughter dies. "Seriously?"

Now she smiles. "I knew you'd say yes. You're pretty predictable, too. I wouldn't have asked you if I'd thought you'd say no. But just in case…" She has something in her pocket, something heavy. She takes it out and shows it to him.

A gun.

And that's the moment he truly realizes what he's getting himself into. It's not a game anymore, like it was before, even though it was always a game that involved life or death.

This is a war.

* * *

As he walks up to her – their – house, Mags's last words as they approached the shore resonate in his ears. "You can't tell Annie about this. Not even that I'll volunteer for her. She can't know, she can't know about **anything**. If she has a breakdown and is hospitalized, they'll give her more drugs, and there's no knowing what she will say when she's under the influence of their Capitol drugs. You can't tell her, Finnick."

Annie is waiting on the porch for him, together with Salina. They have both been crying. Finnick gives Salina a hug, whispering his congratulations in her ear, even though his eyes are sad, and they both know why.

A secret part of him wishes that Annie was pregnant, too, although he knows he can't do that to her. She can barely take care of herself, and asking her to raise a child, perhaps (probably) alone – he could never ask that of her.

Sometimes being with Annie is the easiest thing in the world. Sometimes it's very, very hard. Waiting by a hospital bed for her to live or die, that's hard. He's done it before, and he doesn't want to do it again. Ever. Listening to her cry because she's so terrified of going back into the arena again, when he knows that she won't, and not being able to tell her that she doesn't have to be scared – that's hard, too.

He knows Mags is right, though.

They have two weeks together, two weeks before the reaping. He decides to make every single second count. He never leaves her side, and it's not only because he's terrified she'll try to end it all. They make wonderful dinners together – lots of seafood, every day. He makes breakfast in bed for her. Every day, they go swimming, sometimes several times a day. At night, they lie naked in bed, sometimes above the sheets if it's too hot, and it often is. Summer is here. He knows that with summer comes the Hunger Games, it always does, but still he allows himself to enjoy the luxury of the simple things in life, here and now: Sun. Sea. Food. Annie's naked body under his. Her soft, nearly inaudible sounds when she comes. Her hair fanned out over the pillow, stiff with salt. Her slow, regular breathing against his body when she's fallen asleep after, her skin flushed, and she's so beautiful and amazing and perfect and she's **his**, and he can't fall asleep himself because he doesn't want the moment to end, he wants it last forever. They only have these two weeks. He knows his chances of getting out of the arena alive are slim at best. The Hunger Games are always unpredictable. And Snow is probably out to get him as well, even though he's not the primary target.

He really is willing to sacrifice his life for Katniss Everdeen. The Mockingjay. Even if it means he'll never have nights like this ever again. Nights of warm skin touching warm skin, summer breeze through open windows, Annie's hair smelling of the sea.

* * *

And all too soon, it's over. It's reaping day. Annie finally loses it, after hanging on for so long, and he and Mags have to practically sedate her to get her to come with them to the ceremony. Her pupils are huge, and she can barely walk, he's not even sure if she can recognize him. He's so sorry it has to end like this, that she probably won't even remember their goodbye, the goodbye that will perhaps have to last her a lifetime. He doesn't dare to meet Mags' eyes, but he sees the set of her jaw.

She's made up her mind. Her old, weathered hands are kind and loving when she brushes Annie's hair back from her face.

As usual, it's ladies first.

And just like Mags said, the name that is chosen is: "Annie Cresta." She screams, a terrible, terrible scream, of a dying animal. So she wasn't **that** drugged out after all, he thinks, perhaps strangely calm. She heard her name, she understood. She starts to fight, she's wild and vicious, but suddenly, Mags has volunteered. Just like she said she would. He'd be relieved, if he wasn't so angry that she's had to do this in the first place. She's walking with the help of a cane. She's 80 years old.

Everyone knows she'll never make it out of the arena live. But her bravery, even if to most people it will be seen as an old person sacrificing herself for a young, mad girl, is touching. He holds Annie, tries to calm her in the last few seconds before the male tribute's name is drawn from the bowl. There are four paper slips in it. He sees Trom's wife, at the far end of the square, surrounded by their four children. Her face is ashen.

He buries his face in her hair, in her madness it's as wild as she is. Unkempt and still full of salt after their midnight swim last night. It gives her hair a dry, stringy feel to it. He breathes in her scent, like he's drowning and she is air. He wants to stop time, to make this moment last forever.

And, just like Mags said, he hears his name: "Finnick Odair."

And he has to leave her. She starts screaming again, and he whispers in her ear: "We'll say goodbye after. Just please, please, Annie, we'll say goodbye after. Please, I need to go now." He looks over at Trom, who without a word takes his place, holding her steady, making sure she doesn't run off or attack anyone or jump off the stage to break her neck. No words pass between them, but none are necessary.

Keep her safe.

Trom nods.

With a deep breath, he goes over to Mags, and spontaneously, he takes her hand. Neither of them waves, or acknowledges the audience, or cries. They just stand there, like statues.

After the ceremony, they are whisked off to the train station. "What about our one hour to say goodbye?" he says, almost desperately, and then they tell him that there's been a change of rules. There won't be any goodbyes. And the one thing he's held on to, that he'd be able to say goodbye to her before he left, is taken from him. The last words she is to hear from him, were "I need to go now".

It's almost unbearable.

* * *

The tension on the train is palpable. No one is in the mood to talk. Hannock and Hook are going to mentor, while Trom and Annie stay behind in Four. As the train picks off speed as it leaves the station, he sees the houses and the harbor for the last time. It's like a painting, almost impossibly beautiful with the bright blue sea and the sunshine and the white houses. Somehow not even the very first time he went to the Capitol, at the age of 14, was worse than this.

He sees broadcasts of the other reapings. Cashmere is reaped, and so is Gloss. Of course. They are both impossibly beautiful. They stand hand in hand, too. They keep their dignity, showing no emotion, but still he sees the tears in her eyes – perhaps because he knows her so well.

He really hopes he doesn't have to kill her. She doesn't know anything, she won't be in their alliance. She will probably expect him to team up with the other careers, ditching Mags. Four is a career district, and Finnick is a fierce enemy – and a valuable ally. He doesn't quite know how to reject the offer he knows will come from her and the other careers. Enobaria and Brutus from District Two – Brutus even volunteers. Mags huffs when she sees it. Brutus volunteered not to save anyone else, but because he wanted to be in the Games again. "He's always been an idiot," she mutters under her breath.

Finnick knows that Brutus, too, was broken beyond repair by the Hunger Games. He was broken so badly that he doesn't really function outside of them. That's probably the reason why he wants to go back. It's the one thing he really can **do**.

The scene from Four seems even somehow more tragic on TV than it was in real life – Mags volunteering. Annie's breakdown. Her screams ring in his ears, how will he ever sleep tonight? There are others, too, from other districts. Morphlings. They'll be eaten for breakfast by the careers for sure. Johanna Mason. He likes Johanna, he always did. She'll be in the alliance, Mags told him. He's somehow not surprised – Johanna always had a lot of courage. That's how she won her Hunger Games. That's also how she lost her entire family after winning, because she refused to be sold. She had the courage to stand up to the Capitol, and she paid the price.

And then, they save the best for last – District 12.

Katniss, Peeta and Haymitch stand on stage. Peeta looks determined, Haymitch looks worried, and Katniss… She looks like she's made of stone. She knows there is no escape. There is only one slip of paper in the bowl, and the name on it is Katniss Everdeen. Effie cries when she reads the name. What a change from last year, he remembers. She was so happy last year, she always was. Year after year, she'd call out the names of children being sent to die, and she'd do it with delight. This Quarter Quell is even affecting the escorts.

And then – "Haymitch Abernathy". Predictably, Peeta volunteers – and then they are together again, in the Hunger Games. The star-crossed lovers of District 12. They only got to enjoy one year of riches, of the rewards that befall victors. These rewards, such as they are, come at a price, of course. Prostitution, surveillance, nightmares, addictions - to name a few.

They stand united, but they think only one of them will come out of the arena alive this time – and they are both determined that it will be the other one. Which is admirable, really – if only Finnick hadn't been willing to sacrifice his own life to make sure that doesn't happen.

Mags switches off the TV.

"Well, that's our competition," she says. "Care for a drink?"

There is not much to do but drink and start mapping their opponents. The latter is almost unbearable, they know most of the others victors so well, so the alcohol is necessary to numb the pain.

The train trip to the Capitol is long, yet it seems to end almost too soon.

* * *

He's never really met her, the person he's going to sacrifice his life for. He was introduced briefly to her at her Victor's Banquet last year, but she seemed so overwhelmed and terrified that she barely noticed him. He shook her hand, which was warm and sweaty, then she was gone.

Now she's here, right in front of him, stroking a horse. He doesn't know where Peeta is, the other half of the star-crossed lovers of District Twelve. He snorts. They're certainly not more star-crossed than him and Annie, but still. He's glad the two seventeen-year-olds have the dubious honor of that distinction, and not them. He knows they're not together, that it's all a hoax, and he wonders why Peeta isn't here yet. They need to keep up appearances, after all.

He narrows his eyes, studying her. She's beautiful, no doubt, although it's not a perfect, classic beauty like Cashmere's – or his, for that matter. She has a hard look on her face, betraying both her insecurity and her distaste of the whole spectacle. His experienced eyes run over her body, it's filled out nicely since last year. The end of puberty and decent food have done wonders to her figure. She is dressed in what looks like a fitted dark jumpsuit, which seems oddly out of place. But he remembers last year, and he assumes Cinna has some kind of trick up his sleeve.

He looks down at his own attire, a fishing net which only barely hides what it needs to to avoid a scandal. His designer is hardly of Cinna's caliber. And he thinks: If I'm going to risk my life for this Mockingjay of theirs, I want to at least talk to her first.

He can't help it, he can't resist the temptation to see if he can embarrass her. She looks all too… pure. Purity is rare in the Capitol. He wonders how she's escaped prostitution for so long, because clearly she has. He can spot a virgin from a mile away. It must be her fake relationship to Peeta that's saved her from becoming a whore, but it couldn't save her from being reaped.

He wonders how Peeta managed not to sleep with her, considering he's madly in love with her and has shared a bed with her many times. He's heard this secret whispered over many pillows, he believes it must be true.

He also knows that trying to embarrass her is his only way of getting the upper hand. Because the creature standing by the horse, so dark and beautiful and alone and strong, has something he could never dream of having. And he sees it now, he sees why she's the Mockingjay, although he doubts she even knows it herself.

She's so preoccupied with the horse that she doesn't see him coming. He allows himself the luxury of taking in her beauty up close before he lets her know he's there by chewing on a sugar cube, crunching it between his molars. She turns around instantly at the sound, not like a hunter, but like prey. Her pupils dilate, and he smirks.

_"Hello, Katniss_," he says, as if they've known each other forever, not just met briefly once, last year.

_"Hello, Finnick_," she says, clearly trying to sound casual. So she knows who I am, he thinks with a flash of pride, but then he thinks: Of course she does. It's probably not a good thing. She seems uncomfortable, and he makes very sure to flex his muscles – not enough for it to look conspicuous, just enough to make her uneasy and flushed. He just can't help teasing her a little, as she stands there, probably feeling superior to him.

If she only knew.

_"Want a sugar cube?"_ He offers her his hand, the sugar cubes piled up. _"They're supposed to be for the horses, but who cares? They've got years to eat sugar, whereas you and I… Well, if we see something sweet, we better grab it quick."_ She clearly gets the double entendre. He sees in her eyes that she does exactly what he intended her to: For one split second she pictures herself in bed with him, and she hates herself for it.

_"No thanks_," she says to the sugar. _"I'd love to borrow your outfit sometime, though."_ She can't hide her blush, even as she tries to answer him in the same way he talks to her. But where he's experienced and cynical, she's pure, so she can't. Not really.

_"You're absolutely terrifying me in that get-up. What happened to the pretty little-girl-dresses?"_ He wets his lips just ever so slightly with his tongue. He knows that drives women crazy. They imagine all the other places his tongue could be. He's not sure if Katniss does, though. Clearly, Peeta's tongue hasn't introduced her to the pleasures a tongue can provide. All she gives him, is a look that resembles – disgust? He's not used to it, to this kind of reaction, and it makes him uneasy.

_"I outgrew them,"_ she says.

Yes, you did.

He takes the collar of her outfit and runs it between his fingers, to punish her just a little bit for the disgust she couldn't hide a moment ago. If she can me him uneasy, sure he can do the same for her. Unsettle her. To his surprise, she smells faintly of bread. His fingertips touch her skin, just for a second, and it's warm and soft. She doesn't flinch. _"It's too bad about this Quell thing. You could have made out like a bandit in the Capitol. Jewels, money, anything you wanted." _You could have been a whore, like the rest of us.

_"I don't like jewels, and I have more money than I need. What do you spend all yours on, anyway, Finnick?"_

_"Oh, I haven't dealt with anything as common as money in years." _He lowers his voice, his eyes never leaving hers.

_"Then how do they pay you for the pleasure of your company?"_

"_With secrets,"_ he says softly. He tips his head so that his lips are almost in contact with hers. _"What about you, girl on fire? Do you have any secrets worth my time?"_

If only you knew mine, little Mockingjay.

She blushes again. "_No, I'm an open book," _she whispers. _"Everybody seems to know my secrets before I know them myself."_

_"Unfortunately_, I think that's true." She has no idea. No idea how true that is. He sees Peeta coming, his brow furrowed as he sees the two of them together. _"Peeta is coming. Sorry you have to cancel your wedding. I know how devastating that must be for you."_ He tosses another sugar cube into his mouth and walks off, towards his own chariot. His heart is racing, and he doesn't quite know why. It's not love, he knows how that feels, it's not admiration, it's… awe.

The chariots with the tributes from Twelve are after his in the procession, of course, and he's not able to look back at them . But when he hears the roar from the audience when a chariot enters the massive stadium, he knows it must be theirs. Immediately, every screen shows the two young tributes from Twelve, and he knows he was right. Cinna truly outdid himself. They're not on fire this year – instead, they are smoldering, glowing, like coal. Their hands are united. A team. They don't wave at the audience or even acknowledge that they are there, they just stand there. Superior, unforgiving.

He has to give it to them, the tributes from Twelve do know how to put on a show.

His chariot stops in front of the President, and he looks back as the glowing embers from Twelve approach and their chariot stops not far from his. If Katniss and Peeta realize that all eyes are on them, and they must, they certainly don't show it.

He stares at her, mesmerized, feeling the roar from the crowd almost like a heartbeat. Steady, strong, life-giving. She provides that. This seventeen-year-old girl provides the force, the energy, the fire, that Panem needs to react.

And in that moment, he knows that this – laying down his life for the girl on fire – is necessary.

He will save Katniss Everdeen. And if he has to sacrifice his own life doing it, he will hold on to this perfect moment of smoldering coal and power as he dies.


End file.
